Archie took a glass and drained it, promising himself he’d only have the one. It would have been impolite to refuse. Spike refilled it. Maybe just the two then.
“I need the stuff on this list,” Archie said, passing a note over the desk. “How long before you can get it?” Spike took a drag on his cigarette, downed his whiskey and cast his eyes over the items. It didn’t present too much of a challenge, it was all standard kit, stuff he had in storage: webbing, side arms, morphine, a sat phone, hunting knives, jungle hammock, malaria tablets. Hiring a helicopter might take a couple of days to arrange but it was all do-able.
“You off on a little camping trip, maybe doing some hunting?” He asked with a smile.
“Something like that.” Archie replied.
“Look, you get me the money I can drop this round for you early tomorrow.” Spike said.
“Great. Pass me your phone and account details and let me know how much, I’ll transfer it straight away.”
Spike was taken aback. Normally he expected his clients to bargain; his prices were high, too high for anyone to pay unquestioningly and Archie hadn’t even asked how much it would come to. If he didn’t know the man better he would have suspected a set up. He looked at him carefully, took in the slight tremble in his hand, the intense look in his eye.
“You in trouble man?” He asked at length. Archie frowned, scratched his head. He had no reason to lie to the man.
“Not me. My boy. My boy’s out there. I need to bring him back.”
Spike nodded. He had known Archie long enough to remember what had happened after Paul’s death. The man was derailed. You couldn’t go for a drink with him without it ending in disaster, a dozen bars half destroyed, the same number of broken noses.
“Come with me. I’ll get you tooled up. Then we’ll see what we can do about that chopper.” He said, rising to his feet. “And don’t worry about payment, we can sort it out later.”
43
Jack awoke to a searing pain in his abdomen, two blurred figures above him, a waking nightmare. Red droplets fell from the hands of one of the men, a low voice muttering in French. Blackness soaked into the edge of his vision. Blotting out the light but something above him glinted, sunlight on water. A chandelier? In his side a rat, wriggling about in his intestines, trying to claw its way out, skin stretched to breaking point, surface torn. Distant voices from another world.
There, clean this up. We’ll add it to the other devices.
What are you going to do with him? Let him bleed out? Drop him in the jungle?
An ominous silence. I’ll put in some stitches. Keep him breathing for now. Clement made it quite clear he doesn’t want a white body buried on his lands. Never know who might turn up looking for it. And it’s better he stays alive till we can dump him in the bush. A dead body will start to stink in this humidity.
Two sets of footsteps moving away. One came back, splashed something over the wound. This time the pain was too much, the bite of the alcohol sterilising the wound, and Jack blacked out.
Despite any lack of formal training, Monsieur Blanc was well-practised at carrying out impromptu surgery. He had dealt with his fair share of injuries, some more serious than others, and his stubby fingers were remarkably dextrous. He stood back to admire his work: the stitches were neat and well-tied, the wound looked clean.
He had another reason for keeping the boy alive. The device had been close to the surface, not connected to the surrounding tissue as Dr. Seladin had led him to believe. The isolation of the unit within the body bothered him. If was not connected to living organic matter, then why embed it in a living host in the first place? It supported the story Jack had spun. The notion the devices did nothing…either he or Clement were being set up and it wasn’t a pleasant sensation.
He wiped the boy’s forehead, scalded red from where they’d left him in the sun.
“The operation was a success I hear?” Monsieur Blanc jumped. It was Clement’s voice booming from the doorway.
“Yes, easy to retrieve the device. You have the full set now. Should be able to move them on to to your buyer.” Monsieur Blanc replied. Clement waved his hand impatiently.
“Come, leave business talk for later. Now we eat. Mwamba, jungle stew, spicy as you like it.” Monsieur Blanc nodded, pouring some of the alcohol disinfectant over his hands and drying them with a pocket-handkerchief. He hated the chewy, spicy, unidentifiable bits of meat Clement served up, but it would not do to give offence and refuse it. Especially not when the boy soldiers that served them would be half-starving.
Clement walked over to where Jack lay, leant his head over the boy’s mouth, felt the faint whisper of breath on his ear.
“Still alive. You did a good job. Maybe I’ll call you next time instead of visiting my doctor in Switzerland.” Monsieur Blanc forced a laugh. “I fear that would be something of a mistake. I can stitch up a knife wound. At a push I might be able to dig out a bullet, cauterise the veins, but that is all. Battlefield surgery. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to perform the expert plastic surgery that keeps you looking so young.”
Clement roared with laughter and clapped Monsieur Blanc on the shoulder. “You flatter me, mon ami. Now, what about this boy,” he surveyed the prostrate body lying on the makeshift operating table. Took in the size of the man, the muscular build.
“I am thinking we might be wise to put a guard or two on this room,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Just in case he wakes up.”
“Agreed,” Monsieur Blanc nodded. “And make sure they’re armed. He has a tendency to struggle. Now, where is this famous jungle stew of yours?”
44
The night sky was blue-black. Patchy clouds but otherwise no cover. The bone-rattling Hercules was not the best plane from which to jump, but at short notice they had to take what was available. No chance of resting up during the flight either, the thunderous racket from the props saw to that.
Ed Garner made his way along the fuselage, stopping to talk briefly with each member of the team in a combination of sign language and shouts above the roar of the engines. He wanted to check they were fully prepped but he also needed to keep himself busy, keep his mind off the drop. That was the worst bit, so many things could go wrong. Wind speed calculated incorrectly, a mistake by the navigator that left them miles from their target, equipment failures, primary chute not opening, secondary chute not opening. Ed had been in the armed forces long enough to see it all. He would be happier once the team were safely on the ground and in position. He opened the cockpit door, closing it behind him. The roar of the engines fell away. The one area of the plane that had some kind of noise insulation.
“How long till we reach the drop zone?” He asked the co-pilot. “Twenty minutes. Make your final checks. We’ll be opening the loading doors, need to get you guys out as close together as possible.”
“Fine,” Ed said, his jaw clenched. “What are we cruising at?”
“Twenty-thousand feet, but we’ll bring it down to fifteen for the jump.” The co-pilot had no idea what the men in the back of his plane were going to do once they hit the ground. He didn’t need to know, wasn’t in his job description. Just fly them to the co-ordinates on the map and open the doors. Ed nodded his thanks and returned to his men.
“Final checks please boys. We’re jumping in 20.” A flurry of arms and kit from the men, faces streaked with black and dark green camouflage paint. Parachutes hefted onto broad shoulders, safety catches checked.